


Three Years

by billie33gd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:08:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billie33gd/pseuds/billie33gd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after Sherlock's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Years

“John dear, I’m going to do some shopping!” Mrs. Hudson shouted into the quiet flat. “Need anything?”

  


“Oh no. I did some shopping earlier today Mrs. Hudson. Thank you.” John smiled, picking his mug up. “But I have the rent for you.”

  


“My boy, you don’t have to pay the full portion-”

  


“Mrs. Hudson, I occupy the entire flat. By myself. I owe you full rent. No worries alright?”

  


“It’s okay love.” The elderly woman stated, patting his shoulder gently. “Have a nice night in.”

  


John smiled and settled himself in his chair.

  


Everything seemed normal in the flat. It was a bit dusty, and some particular items haven’t been moved in ages. His phone buzzed quietly beside him.

  


  
_Three years tomorrow Dr. Watson. Same place as usual? - **MH**_   


  


John sighed, leaning his head back against the chair.

  


  
_Yes. - **JW**_   


  


  
**~****~**   


  


“You know, everything’s been boring without you around.” John stated, leaning into his cane. The limp was too much today. Just as it always had been these past few years.

  


“Sorry that I am late Dr. Watson. The American President… never mind.” Mycroft waltzed up with his umbrella. “How are you today?”

  


“Same as ever.” John replied. The elder Holmes stood still beside the doctor in silence.

  


“The limp?”

  


“Worse.”

  


“I could get you a station helping others as a doctor in Afghanistan again Dr. Watson-”

  


“I’m fine here Mycroft. I don’t want to leave. Besides Mrs. Hudson needs someone in the flat.”

  


“As loyal as the first day I met you.” Mycroft smirked, setting a small flower in front of the headstone. “Not that my brother liked flowers or anything, but I thought it would be nice.”

  


John didn’t respond. His mind was wandering. What if Sherlock was still here? What if it had been himself to go over the edge of the falls instead of Sherlock? Would Sherlock be standing at his grave, three years later?

  


An hour passed with these thoughts, and Mycroft explained to John that he in fact had to return to his office.

  


_Of course, Britain would fall without Mycroft Bloody Holmes for an hour_. John thought, shaking his head. He had been good to John these past three years. Still as insufferable as ever, and kidnapped him with black cars when possible, but he seemed to care.

  


“So Mrs. Hudson misses you.” He started, setting the small group of flowers on the headstone. “She still thinks we were together, as does everyone else…”

  


John paused taking a breath and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

  


“Sherlock-” He choked out. “You know, I didn’t cry at your funeral. I couldn’t. Why, why did you have to do that? Why did you have to go off on your own again? Damn it….”

  


He sank slowly to his knees.

  


“I’m not much of a romantic Sherlock, but I, I actually loved you, you know that? We, we just started our relationship, and, I-” He wiped his eyes. “I was going to tell you. But you were gone the next morning, then I found your note. It took me all this time to finally be out with it, but you can’t hear me. You’re dead. You’re a pile of bones in a box six feet under dirt…”

  


After that, John didn’t say anything. He just sat there, and let the tears fall. Three years of kept up emotions and nightmares watching Sherlock fall off the building.

  


It took a couple hours for him to calm down. By the time the sun was setting, his eyes were dry and red, and his nose was cold.

  


“I’ll be back Sherlock.” He whispered, placing a kiss on the cold stone.

  


John picked his cane up, and began walking slowly to the main entrance. By accident, his shoulder hit another man.

  


“Sorry.” He looked up.

  


“Oh, no, it is fine.” The man replied. His hair was a ginger color, nose rather pointy, and was hunched over slightly. “Sorry.”

  


“Um, you’re okay though, right?”

  


“Yes.” The man nodded, voice cracking. But John felt a familiar tug. The eyes. They felt so, so similar. Light grey, with some blue… “You okay fellow?”

  


“Yea, sorry.” John shook his head, looking away. “Just need to get home. Sorry again.”

  


The man nodded, and John continued limping all the way back to the street. He didn’t care about cab fare anymore, and he hated being surrounded by people on the tube. Sherlock liked cabs, so he did too.

  


Going to bed that night was too hard. The strange man at the cemetery’s eye’s had stuck in his brain. He knew whose they were, but it was impossible for another man to have something so similar to someone he loved.

  


  
**~****~**   


  


The next week was a hard one. The clinic was slow, and John was left up to his own devices most of the time. It was quite boring and tedious. Was no one getting sick?

  


Sarah had been checking on him every hour or so. She knew what last week was and that every year John was a moody person during that time.

  


“I don’t need you checking up on me every hour Sarah.” John replied, without looking up from his paper. “I’m not a danger, and I’m not going to jump out a window or slash my wrists.”

  


“I know John.” She closed the door behind her. “I just get a little worried this time of year…”

  


“I know.” He folded the paper, and set it down.

  


“Three years-”

  


“Sarah, I really don’t want to talk about it.” John held his hand up.

  


“Okay.” Sarah nodded. “I have a patient for you. Say’s he’s been wheezing.”

  


“Thanks.” John responded quietly, silently hating patients who begin to assume they have asthma or something serious.

  


A tall man walked in and John looked up.

  


“We met at the cemetery.” John replied, shocked.

  


“Oh, we did, didn’t we?” The man smiled, teeth missing and all.

  


“Yes…” He looked the man over. Something wasn’t right. “So, you’ve been wheezing?”

  


“Mhmm. Think I might got some asthma, or something.”

  


John chuckled, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

  


“Alright, just sit up on there, and lift your shirt.” He spoke, and grabbed his stethoscope. The man did what he was told. “Your name?”

  


“Allcott Kruger.”

  


“German?”

  


“Family, yes.”

  


John continued, hearing some of the wheezing.

  


“It’s nothing serious. You seem to have some allergies, and with the winter being more windy than normal, it’s understandable. I’m going to prescribe some singular, and you’ll be fine. Be sure to take it before bed, because it does promote drowsiness.”

  


“Thank you Dr. Watson.” Allcott nodded, his voice different.

  


“You’re,” John paused. It threw him off. “You’re welcome…”

  


“Dr. Watson, are you okay?”

  


John shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. “Yes.” He finally answered, throwing Sherlock’s face from his mind. “We’re finished here, here is your prescription. You can fill it downstairs.”

  


He nodded and left the room a little quicker than most patients. John felt the familiar tug again. Something didn’t add up.

  


“Wait!” John called, running after his patient.

  


“John?” Sarah called after him when he ran past her.

  


“Allcott!” He shouted. The man wasn’t far ahead of him. John kept running through the streets, his limp long forgotten and his adrenaline running high. “Allcott!!!”

  


The chase wasn’t long. It took him to the cemetery, and Allcott wasn’t too far ahead of him. But then, he disappeared among the headstones.

  


“Allcott!” John shouted, his voice strained and tired. The run was fantastic, he felt amazing with the adrenaline running through his veins. It felt like he was with Sherlock again, chasing criminals through the dark streets of London. His limps was long forgotten, and the thought of Sherlock wasn’t hurting him.

  


Like many times before, his feet carried him to the familiar headstone residing far from the eyes of others. This time it was different. There was someone residing at the headstone. On his knees. A person from his past? Or-

  


“Allcott?” John approached the man, surprised to find him hear.

  


“Oh, Dr. Watson, sorry.” He stood up, shaking his head. “Um, old friend of mine.”

  


“How’d you meet Sherlock?”

  


“University. We were in maths together.”

  


“Hmm, he never mentioned you.” John shook his head. “Who are you?”

  


“A friend-”

  


“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have friends. He’s got people who care about him, and he cares about some people, but he was in contact with no one from his past. Now tell me, who are you? You’re voice changed, and you’re not hunched over anymore.”

  


“Alright.” He responded quietly, the voice bringing memories back for John. It was too much like Sherlock. He pulled his nose off, ears, and finally wig, revealing dark curls underneath.

  


“No.” John closed his eyes, shaking his head.

  


“John-”

  


“No!!!” The man shouted, his hands clenching. “No, no, no, no! You’re not here, and I’m seeing this. I’ve lost my mind.”

  


“John, it’s me.” He spoke, setting his hand on his shoulder. “You haven’t lost your mind…”

  


John’s eyes opened slowly, and staring at him was the familiar eyes he had dreamed about for three years.

  


“How- Why-” John whispered, almost collapsing. But he didn’t. His fist went flying into Sherlock’s face. The man fell onto the ground.

  


“You were dead! YOU WERE DEAD, IN THE GROUND SHERLOCK!” John shouted, his voice echoing throughout the entire cemetery. He gripped Sherlock’s jacket, pulling him up from the ground. “I WAS AT YOUR FUNERAL. I SAW THEM LOWER THE COFFIN INTO THE DIRT, AND YET YOU’RE HERE! IN FRONT OF ME!!”

  


“John, calm down.” Sherlock whispered, holding his nose. “I can explain.”

  


“Three years, Sherlock.” John dropped him. “Three bloody years, and you decide to, to not be dead now!”

  


John shook his head again, and turned to walk away.

  


“John- Wait!” Sherlock grabbed his arm. John pulled away, and continued to walk from Sherlock. “John? John!”

  


John ran. Ran as fast as his feet would carry him before he knew he’d collapse. The emotion, terror, and just shock was too much to handle.

  


He was back at 221B but knew the footsteps that weren’t far behind him.

  


“John, I have to explain why-” Sherlock spoke from behind John. He caught his breath, and turned, but barely looked at him.

  


“Oh, let’s hear your story then!” John belted, throwing his hands into the air. “Let’s hear the story of the consulting detective who abandoned his life, who abandoned people who loved him.”

  


“I had to stop Moriarty’s criminal ring!” Sherlock shouted. People were beginning to stare. “They had to think I was dead, so they wouldn’t go after you. Do you understand, do you get it? They knew. They knew _everything._ About you, about where we stood. They even knew how to take Mycroft down, and I had to stop that.”

  


“But I shouldn’t have had to bear with that thought Sherlock! I, I dealt with so much after your death, and was just getting back to normal. Not having nightmares of your blood splattered on the street, or falling on fence and bleeding to death-” He chocked, holding back tears. “You can’t just _**show**_ up after _three years_.”

  


“Then what do you want me to do John? Write you a letter, proclaiming it was a mistake to leave you and others behind? Because it wasn’t. You think those three years were easy for me?”

  


He remained silent, but couldn’t meet Sherlock’s gaze.

  


“I should get inside.” John finally spoke, pushing his key in the door. “You, you can come in.”

  


Sherlock followed John into the flat he had missed. Nothing was moved. Everything was sitting in the same place it had been the day he died. The skull, the books… John had moved nothing.

  


“John, I don’t expect you to, to even think of forgiving me. But being away for so long, it hurt me too. I had no person to turn to, or even rely on. I was alone to find those men and women in his crime ring, and it had to be that way. I couldn’t put you in danger.”

  


“You could have taken me with you!” John bellowed and finally turned to face Sherlock. “I would have gone with you and helped you!”

  


“No. That’s not how it was going to happen, because they would have found a way to use you, or even kill you. I had to travel around the world-”

  


“How did you afford that? Mycroft constantly informed me that the money you had sitting in a bank account, was untouched. Oh god… Mycroft… He, he knew?”

  


Sherlock shook his head, and looked down upon his feet.

  


“Then who supported you?”

  


“Mother. And father.”

  


“Your, your parents? Who, who both, wept at your funeral, and planned everything? They helped you?!”

  


“I couldn’t let Mycroft let it slip to you. So he doesn’t know, though with the running through the street’s he’s bound to be on his way any moment-”

  


“I DON’T BLOODY CARE ABOUT IF HE’S COMING HERE OR NOT!” John shouted, breathing heavily. “All I care is that you let this happen. You let us believe that you were dead. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, poor Molly… Sherlock, you have people who cared about you. Hell, even Sally was upset.”

  


“Which is why I did this. To protect those closest to me-”

  


John held his hand up, stopping Sherlock from speaking.

  


“I’m going to bed. You can have your room back, nothings been moved.” He spoke quietly, and trotted up the stairs.

  


John took a look at his phone, finding a message.

  


  
_My office 10 a.m. sharp. Bring, him. - **MH**_   


  


  
**~****~**   


  


“Put something decent on. We’re going somewhere, and you unfortunately have to come along.” John grabbed his cane when he stepped off the stairs.

  


“Still not thrilled to see me.” It wasn’t a question.

  


“Not in the slightest.” John murmured. A bruise was formed on Sherlock’s cheek, in the same place it did all those years ago in Irene Adler’s home

  


A black car pulled up and Sherlock sighed, knowing where they were going. He knew it wasn’t going to be avoided.

  


The car ride was silent, but Sherlock yearned for John to at least look at him. He knew deep down, that he would most likely not have the same relationship they had three years ago. After pretending to be dead, he knew that there would be consequences.

  


The car pulled up to the familiar offices, and Sherlock followed behind John, but not close. He kept his distance until they reached their destination. Mycroft’s office door.

  


For once in his life, Sherlock was feeling, well _feeling_ about what his brother would have to say. Despite their quarrel’s in the past, the fact remained. Mycroft cared for Sherlock.

  


“Ah, Dr. Watson, and, Sherlock.” His name came out as the sound of disbelief. “Sit, if you please.”

  


“I would rather-”

  


“You, don’t have any say.” Mycroft slammed his hands on the desk. Sherlock sat, watching John lean against a side table with stacks of papers. “Anthea, make sure no one bothers me for at least two hours, and no one is allowed near my office.” Mycroft spoke into the intercom.

  


“Now, it seems that you may have been back longer than you’d like either of us to believe.” Mycroft spoke in his crisp business voice.

  


“What do you mean?” John asked.

  


“These were taken four weeks ago. The man, who you met at the cemetery, is featured in every photo. I was concerned that someone from Moriarty’s crime ring was following you.”

  


“And you didn’t tell me?” John grabbed the photos. “I mean, we know now that it wasn’t a danger, but we couldn’t have known then.”

  


“Yes, I understand, but for the sake of the anniversary that was coming up, I didn’t want to alarm you. He hadn’t attacked you, just watched you. It wasn’t until yesterday, when he walked into your clinic, I knew it was Sherlock.”

  


“And you didn’t tell me that either?”

  


“Of course he wouldn’t-”

  


“Shut up!”  Both John and Mycroft shouted at him. He silenced himself.

  


“It was too late. By the time I saw it again, you were chasing Allcott Kruger down the street.” Mycroft tossed a file in front of Sherlock. “You were truly at your best, weren’t you dear brother?”

  


“I, I, I was doing what I had to do.” Sherlock took the folder off the desk. Inside resided photos of him in various parts of the world. Most were rather shocking, and he wanted to forget about them. “To protect those close to me.” He whispered.

  


“I called every government I could in every god damn country last night Sherlock.” Mycroft stood and moved to the opposite side, leaning on the desk.

  


“I had to stop his crime ring, and I had to do it alone. I’m not proud of what I did, and I tried my best to hide it. It took me this long to find all of them, the last one, knowing I was alive, and going after John-”

  


“Wait, what?” John snapped his attention to Sherlock.

  


“Sebastian Moran.” Sherlock flipped through the file. “Moriarty’s right hand man, military sniper-”

  


“I know who he is. We were in the ranks together. Why was he after me Sherlock? What did you do?”

  


“He knew I was, hunting, all of Moriarty’s ring, and he thought you knew. He was going to use you against me, and even try to throw Mycroft in there somehow.”

  


“So you caught him by the Thames.” Mycroft intervened. “I can cover this Sherlock, but you, I’m very disappointed in what has had to happen.”

  


“I couldn’t go to you-”

  


“So you went to your mother and father?” John snapped again. “Who led us to believe that you were dead, when she knew you were breathing somewhere and this god forsaken planet? Your mother comforted me, Sherlock. Said that it was time for me to move on.”

  


“Our parents?” Mycroft stopped John, holding his hand up. “Our parents knew about this?”

  


“Of course, how do you think I got to where I needed to go? I couldn’t get into my bank account being dead and all. Clearly your observation skills have weakened Mycroft-”

  


“You have no say in anything until I speak with mother.” Mycroft shouted, angrier than ever. “How are you going to tell others that you’re alive? You nearly killed Dr. Watson yesterday. Do you think Mrs. Hudson or Greg would survive the heart attack you’ll give them, dearest brother?”

  


“I haven’t planned that far ahead-”

  


“Then you better get to it. There is a long list of people who actually came to your funeral you know?” John sneered. “And that just shocks me. That so many cared, yet you didn’t-”

  


“Don’t you dare say that I didn’t care John!” Sherlock bellowed. “How many times do I have to say that I did it to protect everyone, especially you?”

  


“Because that’s not you!!! That is not Sherlock Holmes! You are selfish, and, and a bloody wanker, who doesn’t care about others, or what they think! You manipulate others, and use them for experiments without their knowledge! You humiliate people you think are weaker minded then you are, because you can! You think you’re superior to everyone else on this god damn earth! And you could get away with that. But you can’t, get away with this Sherlock! You can’t get away with dying, and magically coming back! That’s not fair! So excuse me, if I don’t believe that you did this for everyone but yourself! BECAUSE YOU’RE JUST A SELFISH FUCKING MAN!” John bellowed at the top of his lungs, being heard a few offices over.

  


Sherlock stared at John, taking in, and breaking down every word that came out of his mouth.

  


“I’m going home.” John shook his head, face red from anger “You can deal with this.”

  


And like that, he was out the door.

  


“You honestly didn’t think it would be that easy to come back, did you Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, watching Sherlock think. “Because I didn’t even think that was going to be a possibility. I understand your reasons, but you need to take the consequences as they come. And one of those is trust.”

  


“How can you not trust me?”

  


“I don’t know what else you did. You could be the man you were years ago. The addict. And the man who willingly abandoned his life.”

  


“Goodbye Mycroft.” Sherlock stormed out, taking the file with him. He followed the best he could, trying to catch up with John. He needed, needed, John. He as the reason he came back. The reason he fought and **_killed_** all those men and even women. Anyone who stood in his way.

  


Sherlock Holmes was a brutal man when the occasion called for it. And when he caught up to Moran-

  


He stopped outside of Baker Street, finding the door unlocked. Sherlock walked up to the flat. He would deal with the others in time. Now, he wanted, no _needed_ , to prove to John that this was done for a good reason.

  


  
**~****~**   


  


John let Sherlock stay. He really didn’t have anywhere else to go, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have the room.

  


Mrs. Hudson slapped him, and Greg was ready to tackle him down. Sherlock had just waltzed into the Yard, everyone staring at him, like it wasn’t real. He almost couldn’t handle it, as much as John couldn’t.

  


There was even more business to be taken care of. The headstone, the coffin, death certificate… So much that he did to disappear was illegal, that he wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t be sent to prison.

  


Now he was sitting in 221B Baker Street, bored. One full month had passed, and Lestrade wouldn’t let him on cases (physically at least) till he is rendered alive. John was sitting in the kitchen, still ignoring Sherlock. As much as he could at least. Sherlock longed to have a little contact with him. Even if it was just brushing shoulders.

  


He learned a long time ago that he wasn’t the same man that left Baker Street three long, and terrible years ago.

  


“What do you want me to say John?”

  


“Nothing. Absolutely nothing Sherlock.” John snapped, pushing his chair back.

  


“No.” Sherlock jumped out of his chair and darted toward the kitchen, pushing John back down into the chair. “What do you want?”

  


John let out an aggravated sigh. His fists clenched on the table. He was ready to kill.

  


“John-”

  


“I want those three bloody years back Sherlock!” John finally shouted, hitting the table and knocking the chair over. A mug could be heard shattering against the floor. “I want them back, and I want them with the knowledge that you were at least breathing!”

  


“Obviously that’s impossible-”

  


“I DON’T BLOODY CARE! I want the life that I could have had with you back, because I would have gone with you, if you would have just told me Sherlock. If you had told me that I, no we, were in danger, then I would have helped you go after the people you did! But you let me, and, and everyone else believe that you were dead. How could you even think that helped!?”

  


“I never expected you to understand.” Sherlock spat, waving his hand in the air. “You don’t know what I had to go through-”

  


“I don’t. Because you didn’t tell me, but you’re not the only one who went through hell, Sherlock. I buried you. Sherlock, I put you in the ground. You need to understand what that has done to my sanity.”

  


“It was a necessary measure to take. He had to believe that I was dead when I started this. He had to see you grieving. You couldn’t know. No one could-”

  


“Except your parents?” John seethed running his fingers through his hair. “They comforted me, they, they helped me… And they made us all believe it…”

  


“I don’t regret what I did. I protected you.”

  


“I don’t believe that. I know you, don’t I? How it was easy to be relieved of us.”

  


“Why? Because I’m _selfish_ and a _bloody wanker_ , to put it in your terms. Oh, and lets not forget I’m a _manipulative bastard_ who _humiliates_ others because they don’t think like I do. Get it through your thick skull, that what I did was in the interest of _**your**_ protection. He would have slaughtered you. Moran would have made sure you suffered on my account, and I was not going to let that happen.”

  


John’s eyes shifted, reading the detective’s open expression. His eyes were fiery, mimicking the voice. 

  


“I didn’t want to leave you. I didn’t want to make everyone suffer. But I just didn’t have another choice in the matter.” His voice became quiet. “I, I can understand if you want me to leave-”

  


“Sherlock-”

  


“I can pack what I left behind, and find another flat. You’ve occupied this one long enough-”

  


“Sherlock-”

  


“I still have a trust fund, and I can access it.”

  


“Sherlock, **_shut up_**!” John shouted before he shoved Sherlock against the wall, and latched his lips to his. It was all teeth, and tongue, and biting, and it was glorious. So glorious after three years of being deprived.

  


“Why did it take you so long to get back to me?” John muttered against Sherlock’s pale skin, and shoved himself against his body. Sherlock’s fingers clawed desperately at the jacket covering John from him. “Why?”

  


“Everyone…” Sherlock sighed into Johns hair and pulled at his shirt. “They were going to find a way to you.” He tugged John’s shirt, ripping the material before kissing John again, and roaming his hands all over his chest. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

  


John pulled Sherlock from the wall, and staggered to his room, falling against the door and onto the floor in his room. Sherlock scratched John’s shoulders, and pressed harder against John’s growing erection.

  


“Bastard.” John breathlessly spoke, tugging down Sherlock’s pants. “Unbelievable bastard…” Sherlock kissed John again, to shut him up.

  


Nothing was gentle. It wasn’t the time to be gentle or delicate. It was anger, and disappointment, and the fact that three years had gone by without a touch from each other had driven both men insane with lust and desire. The desire to see one wither with pleasure beneath the other. A dream that they both thought would never come to reality again.

  


Sherlock gasped beneath John in his release, his breath staggered, and his vision almost too blurry to see John’s face. John set his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, placing sloppy kisses against his sweat covered collar bone.

  


“I couldn’t get my thoughts from you.” Sherlock finally whispered, his long thin fingers running slowly through John’s hair. Somehow both ended up in the bed. “It was the only thing motivating me to get back here.”

  


“You don’t sound the same.” John responded, pressing his ear to Sherlock’s beating heart. It was soothing, and proof. Proof of the man who died could be back against him.

  


“I can still be cold and calculating around others, but with the things I did-” He paused, tensing momentarily before grabbing a fistful of the sheet around John and himself. “The things I saw-”

  


“Sherlock, it’s okay.” John sat and leveled himself with Sherlock, staring into the troubled eyes. “You came back, and that’s all I really fucking care about right now. It’s going to take time for me to get readjusted to this, but I know that things will eventually get back to where they were.”

  


“I thought,” Sherlock paused, closing his eyes. “The last one, was here in London. I thought I was going to die, for real John.”

  


“Moran?”

  


“Yes. I tracked him down through everything, and he came back here. I had found out through one of his, people, that he was coming after you. To use you against me. I couldn’t let him do that. So I killed him. I shot that ruthful bastard, and made him suffer.”

  


“Sherlock, I think you need to sleep.” John covered Sherlock’s mouth. “If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t need too. I’ve seen enough of the file Mycroft has put together.”

  


Sherlock nodded weakly, the events of the afternoon and evening leaving him exhausted.

  


“But I will tell you one day John. You deserve that much.” Sherlock replied quietly, curling into the man he was relieved to have beside him again

**Author's Note:**

> So first
> 
> -Thank you for reading!  
> -Review if you liked it.  
> -I tried my best to characterize Sherlock, but I made him a more broken man from his experiences. So I do apologize if he's not like he is in the show.  
> -I also did my best with John, but I wanted him angry and upset.  
> -I can't write smut so I apologize for the lack of sexy angry sex.  
> -This is my second Sherlock fic, and I'm kind of proud. :)


End file.
